Star Wars: Lost Dark - A New Legends Fanficiton
by wendigo kid
Summary: Set in the distant 1xxx ABY, the Galaxy has entered an advanced state of decay after the fires of the Second Great Hyperspace War. Jedi have fallen to the swaths of history, long forgotten by the remainders of the Galactic governments after the collapse of the Galactic Alliance, now, with the Dark looming on the edges of Known Space, the Force pulls at the Light...
1. Prologue - Black Mass

Khoengh was bound to have a busy day. He understood this as he prowled through the long, slate charcoal shaded halls of the _Martyrdom-class_ vessel he commanded, he understood this as he passed by posting after posting of plasteel coated soldiers as he kept on his pilgrimage to the hangerbay. He understood this as he nervously thummed at the Dolovite hilt's pommel at his side, twirling the point around the rounded end before flicking the nail against the crimson shaded metal. He stopped at the last door to the hangerbay, standing a few steps away from the trooper posted next to the door. The man was clad in the post-signature armor of the previous Sith. The helmet consisting of a bell-shape that fell close to the head, nearly fully encapsulating it before giving way to a simple octagon section of transparisteel over the eyes, just under that hanging a clunky looking, apparently by design, section of an ash-grey respirator that held from the nose down to the lower chin, with a single three-holed vertical filter, set into the plate, dominating over airways. Plain, sloping armor held the better parts of anatomy, shin guards, leg plates, shoulder, chest, bleeding into a background of a black jumpsuit, the entire design slapped with a coat of polished silver paint. It was cut down and cheaper from the designs of Sith Lords past, but enough to stand out. Khoengh always had enjoyed the design, but he hardly had a moment to truly appreciate it as he stood there, more weight on one foot giving his stance a cocked appearance, slicking a hand backwards through thick, unruly mane that sat ontop of his head.

"Is my _Procession _prepped?" Khoengh's voice came as a smooth relaxant.

"Yes, my Lord, ready to be outbound whenever you are." Came the reply, shuddered through the mechanics of the helmet, an otherworldly tune filtered through.

"While I'm out, Commodore Nonva has the run of this place."

"Of course, my Lord."

Khoengh gave a moment, letting his eyes zone out in the space of the bulkhead directly behind the soldier. His mind wandering if just for a moment, giving himself just a moment to take in the next couple steps he would take. Beats of refocusing, the monotony of the ship was scratching at him, running his mind into the same hallway, the same routines, over and over again. This was a welcomed break from the norm.

Without another word to the man, save a hearty pat on the shoulder as he passed by, Khoengh took the steps to the hangerbay door, the durasteel oscillating in front of him, opening up to the space offered by the _Martyrdom_. It was far from a dedicated carrier, but it was able to make due with what it possessed. It would have been easy, if it was not for the wide branching sections of black and slate silver durasteel, the red banners hanging and flowing in artificial winds, and the dozen military designed _Kovenant_-class fighters, twin weightier _Ruiner _gunships, and the sole _D-28_ bomber, one could easily have mistaken the hanger for one found on a semi-busy commercial space station if for it's size alone. The _Martyrdom _was determined to be a support vessel, a Star Destroyer technically, Khoengh rarely understood exactly what support role that such a spacely specialized craft could do well. The hanger was pitiful, the turbolasors were hardly anything to write home about, the engines were adequate at sublight at best, it always seemed that the best the _Martyrdom _could do was draw fire.

There were a scattering handful of mechanics running through the hanger, taking looks at different vessels simply parked on the reflective floor. Their scans, their checks and worries, part of a daily routine that never returned anything. Occasionally, a pair of _Kovenant _fighters would take off to do routine patrols beyond the flotilla, arching off for nearly half an hour before turning back and returning home. Doing nothing besides wasting fuel. Fuel that those Fleet Engineers, in their jumpsuits and scanner-visors, were all too happy to replace the moment the fighter craft landed.

Amongst the lot of starfighters, the _Procession _hardly seemed noticeable. If not for it's archaic quad-winged design, there was hardly a reason to look at the craft twice. The cockpit was already open, the six-plated design having snapped from the top, a mechanical emplacement on the top of the cockpit sliding the transparisteel utterly out of the way of the pilot. Only requiring a small climb from the hanger floor in order to seat oneself into the captain's chair of the vessel. Two chin mounted blastercannons. No hyperdrive. Minimal shielding. However, the proton torpedo launcher underslung on the craft was a nice after-market addition, something that Khoengh insisted on.

The man maneuvered through the assortment of vessels, making headway to the front of the hanger, mouse droids scurrying about, engineers leading power-droids from vessel to vessel, their lumbering steps and signature call outs echoing through the rather empty facility. He found himself at the cockpit, reaching up and wrapping a hand around the edges of durasteel exposed from the open cockpit, his boot trying, and failing, several times to find purchase on the chin of the vessel. Stopping for a moment, letting his body fall from the minimal progress he had made, looking down at his feet before virtually throwing himself at the durasteel hull. Smacking into it with a jangling of the man's effects, the hilt clacking against ship as he used the momentum to scrawl his steps against the hull. Inching himself up before nearly falling into the chair that marked the command. Shifting about in the chair as he pressed his thumb to the sensor, blowing a flock of blond hair from his face that fell free during the scrap. The sublight engines starting to gently rev to life, the loud hiss of the mechanical arm swinging the transparisteel back down before sealing the cockpit once more. The array of buttons, switches, and levers in front of Khoengh suddenly coming to life, his eyes glancing across each of them as green was seen across the board. He caught his golden eyes in the reflection of the viewport as he glanced up to flick some miscellaneous knob above his head. The humming of the engines grew louder, before his stomach dropped as the vessel picked off of the ground. The viewport suddenly came to life with and endless array of messages and information from the HUD. The engineers on the floor watching the starfighter slowly turn in the air, the gentle blue hum of the sublight engines suddenly flaring to a bright red as the vessel accelerated from the hanger at nearly max speed. Khoengh's laughter nearly full enough to be heard over the modified sublights.

His starfighter pitched and yawned out of the hanger, arching over the entire bow of the _Martyrdom _before shooting right past the nose of the vessel. The endless rows of windows and lights blinking across the vessels, each of them a sign of life, each of them one of the men and women under his stead. As if he stood as a diety, overlooking the clouds on a sleepy night in some forgotten city lost in the waves, smiling, proud of his kith and kin. There was a beauty to the ship in the pure-nothingness that surrounded it, nearly uncanny, as when hovering, if for the briefest moment, one could easily forget that the cruiser was moving at all. Looking like shoddy effects in some Core Systems Union holovid.

His head recentered out his viewpoint, three other massive vessels hung directly in front of his eyes, seemingly not more than a cast away, but in reality being much, much further than he would care to imagine. One of them, a reverse tear-drop design, was a _Jehavey'ir_ desendent design, a _Fett-class_, a vessel utterly designed to sling as many turbolaser rounds in the direction of whatever it was pointed at as possible. Even now, he could see the arms brimming with a latent, untapped energy. He wondered what could be going on the vessel? Perhaps the endless training regime that he was always told that Mandos adhere to, maybe they had decided to celebrate Life Day early and were passing around presents just this very moment. For Mandos, it was difficult to honestly tell if that would be out of character to them. The other craft, an antiquated Imperious-class, battered to the brim with ancient damages and battles that the current crew had never seen. Chips were taken, seemingly at random, out of it's dagger shaped design, and a section of the center seemed to had been sealed off, as a large portion was blasted through, showing off dozens of hallways that intersected before the engagement that struck the blow. The hole hammered clean through the ship.

The sensor array of his vessel blinked steadily, registering two other craft of roughly a similar size to his starfighter had departed both vessels, directly on time. Thankfully, with that, he pushed forward the controls, the ship catching speed that was nearly unnatural for even an interceptor class vessel. The prongs of the wings slowly coming to point, shifting and framing the gargantuan feat of Sith engineering directly in front of his viewscreen. The _Royal Wredd-class_ Star Dreadnaught. Worthy of being a space station in it's own right, a crew capacity of a small moon, and enough weaponry to fry a continent if organized well enough. More starfighters and military personal than the other three vessels put together. It was long enough that the back-end of the vessel vanished beyond the veil of dark, nearly past reasonable sightlines. A bridge, multilayered, built from the back, that nearly looked like several _Martyrdom _vessels bent at the center and spot welded on top of one another. Point defense weapons that could rip and tear through anyone attempting a trenchrun. The mark of the entire design was a four sectioned hanger, each the size of a standard Destroyer's, arranged in a square, possessing the capability to launch an impossible count of vessels at the call. This _Wredd-class_ stood as the only one in existence, a prototype turned escape craft, nothing more than an over glorified resource dump, but Hell, if it didn't bring a tear to Khoengh's eye. A true display of ship-work.

He glanced over, taking his sight away from the Dreadnaught if for a second, to see that the other two starfighters were already well on their way to the vessel, quite a head start. There's a way to fix that, and Khoengh intended to do exactly that. With one hand broadcasting his landing code, his other pushing the thruster forward as the ship bucked and spurted for a second or two as the sublights attempted to process the power increase, the entire starfighter suddenly kicked forward at the speed of a shooting star.

By the time the owners of the other starfighters would make their way to the northeastern most hanger on the _Wredd-class_, the Corellian would be leaning against a wing of his _Procession_, draining a cigarette out of what looked to be his second during his wait. His head tilting up from a datapad he was scowering as a lugged together _Buurenaar _styled fighter, flanked by a much more well crafted and maintained Sith designed _Sphacelia_, entered the hangerbay. The _Buurenaar _fighter's wings suddenly rotating on an axis from the cockpit, laying flat horizontally, as the vessel came to a land not far from it's entry into the hanger, the _Sphacelia _settling down not a few paces shy of the Mandalorian craft. Flicking away the remains of his smoke, both of the cockpits of the craft, as two figures emerged from each. From the Mandalorian craft was a man that seemed more armor than flesh, clad head to toe in Ultracommando plate, the beskar dragging on his form, clanking with every step the man took as he made his way in the direction of the Corellian. The armor was painted a hue of grey, with accent lines of a deeper black, the slit visor as distant and bleak as the space directly outside. A hilt, composed of uncolored beskar, hung at the man's side. The other figure, much leaner than the built Mandalorian, much more stereotypically feminine as well, strolled along side the Mandalorian. Blue skin was harshly contrasted with the rolling cloth of a black-slated tunic, it hung nearly to the woman's knees, with military designed boots with an undertow of plain black pants making up the rest of the look. A shoulder cape hung at the right side of the woman, not visibly armed. Her skin looked similar to a rough ride in a landspeeder, shaded navy, with large dark eyes blinking into the new light of the hanger.

"_Olarom, burc'ya!_" Came the throaty call from the Mandalorian, his arms going wide as he gestured to the Corellian, earning a chuckle in response.

"Come on now, Arasuum, we're in the Prime Sovereign's ship, speak Sith." The sentence began bluntly serious, but fell apart into a laugh as the Corellian stepped away from his starfighter, taking the approach from the Mandalorian as a welcome. Reaching out and taking the much larger man's hand, before pulling forward and bumping chests, something that nearly threw Khoengh to the ground. Anything to keep the big man smiling, never wanted to be on his bad side. The greeting earned a muttering in Mandalorian from the Sith.

"Nice to see you too, Khoengh." The Rodians' voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"I was getting to you, calm down, Ghest. How's the crew doing?"

"Restless, as always. Though I confiscated a wonderful book from one of the infantryman's holds. Hoping it holds my sanity."

"Oh, yea? What's it about?"

"A smuggler falling in love with a moisture farmer."

"There's always the Fighting Pit over on the _Fett_, if books bore you." Arasuum said.

Pleasantries were exchanged back and forth as the gathering slowly began to make their way down the expansive hangerbay, much more than just a casual walk, taking nearly five minutes to even get to the turbolift at the end of the path. Entering the lift, the blinding light that always seemed to be the standard in them nearly sending the Corellian stumbling when they first entered, the group continued to pass exchanges during the transit. Relating tales of what was the recent news on each of their respective vessels, and other such normalities. Rattling off resource distribution statistics, before the conversation changed it's tune rather brashly as the pair found themselves moving down the long path in the direction of the inner sanctum of the vessel.

"We've been skirting in empty space for too many cycles to count. Running fuel for what?" Khoengh complained, nearly to the open air.

"The Prime Sovereign spoke of a plan. I thought we were waiting." Arasuum responded.

"For the True Sith? It's fiction, a fantasy the Prime can use to lure us." Ghest said.

"Fantasy, fiction, I could care less if it was written in the fine print to the deed for this damned ship. Damned tired of pretending to be pathetic. We're wasting out here…"

Their conversation carried them to the hefty doors that marked the entrance to the inner sanctum of the Prime Sovereign, the ruling authority between the Sith Sovereignty, the loose gathering of vessels that Khoengh and the rest called home, for now. Standing just in front of the door was a single soldier, similar to the design of those on the _Martyrdom _vessel, but their armor holding a rusted gold persuasion instead of the edged black. He held a SIW-3 blaster rifle in his grip, a simple weapon, stripped down design from the last of the New Hyperspace War, missing a proper stock, the barrel snubbed, made to stay cheap. He brought himself to a near attention as the gathering of Sith approached, his heels clicking together, but the rifle remaining lack and slumped in his grip.

"I'm sorry, my Lords, but the Prime Sovereign requests that none may enter his sanctum." The trooper spoke.

The gathering of Sith looked between one another, before the Rodian took the initiative.

"We outrank you as Sovereigns and as Sith, stand down. Let us pass."

"Again, I am sorry, but I cann-"

The response was suddenly cut off by the man's head jolting backwards harshly, slamming into the durasteel door behind him, sending a resounding echo through the hall and into the chamber beyond. The man's form crumpled to the ground, a dent in the back of his helmet as well as the door itself. Unseen forces shifted the body to the side, slumping it into the corner in a crumpled mess. The Rodian and Corellians eyes both turned to the Mandalorian, who's hand was ever so slightly extended from his person.

"That's works, sorry, kid." Khoengh said as he walked over to the door controls, tapping a key.

The door slid open, shuddering as the indented piece tried to find itself home, the right most part of the door sticking slightly out from the frame, something that would have to be repaired. The inside of the sanctum was an endless black, pitch, as far as the eye could see. The sound of the door opening itself reverberating far into the endless expanse in front of the group. There were glances given between the three, before offering up a shrug the Mandalorian took a heavy step inside, followed by Ghest, and soon after, a much more cautiously footed Corellian.

The first thing that settled into the Corellian, wearing scant more than a basic button up, comfort slacks, and a bomber's jacket on his person, was the absolute cold that enveloped the entire room. It dared to soak through his boots, it was all consuming. It was as if Hoarfrost personified had taken up residence in the depths of this Star Destroyer, as if the night itself was a welcomed guest of the Prime Sovereign's. Each step was nearly misplaced as tremors cycled their way through the man's body, his breathing frosted, nearly crystalline as it left his lungs.

"Prime, we request a council." The Rodian began, Khoengh suddenly taking a few bolder steps, shaking his head.

"None of that, we demand you speak with us!" He yelled, into the dark, the depths, nothing in return, only the staring abyss. His eyes daring to dig through the nothing in order to fabricate a face, some new reality, something that made more sense than this. Envoys were the only form of communication they had with the Darth, never face to face, this fleet simply placed in it's command during a period of time that always failed to come to the Sith, a point that never clicked fully, but they all always agreed, it had always been their leader.

"We are better than this, we are Sith!" Khoengh continued. "We are burning resources, we are dying out here! We have contacts, places, names, we have warriors, we can be more than this, some Black Fleet, some whispered boogyman. We are Sith, we are the Last, we ar-"

The Corellian went silent, rolling to a stop, a jumble of words that were never properly born or given thought. His eyes and swagger suddenly dropping to the floor. The other's felt it too, shifting and writhing, a presence that scratched at the insides of their skulls, a scream that brought the most horrendous taste. A sight that would make your ears bleed. It was all consuming, rolling through the active reality that they held, a deep and all purposeful existence. It held them, while at the same time they felt ages away from this singular spot they occupied in the ship, and for the briefest moment, the Force felt the furthest away than it ever had. A coldness that strained the eyes, nothing else announced It's arrival besides this, nothing else came as warning besides this, the Spectre had fully entered the room. However, if they were able to focus on anything else, for the briefest moment, it would have felt as if It had been there the entire time. his was His voice, the absence of one. The meaning transcribed across purpose and concept, it was loud, ear-deafening silence, begged for your attention as it drew you through every note and every bow, as the dance wandered off of the cliff face and into the endless void. Khoengh felt his mouth filling, metallic, blood. He reached up, touched his lips, they were coated. He coughed, splattering it, somewhere in the background he heard the others join him, retching up a biologically impossible amount of sanguine nightmares. He fell to his knees as his hand reached to his hip, fumbling with his saber, unable to unclasp it. Hand reaching out, into the dark, for something, and origin of this unreality. Something to center his universe. He shuddered, the Pain was It's voice, this was how It spoke. They understood now.

"Your will be done…" Khoengh barely managed to sputter out before he fell, his face smashing into a puddle of his own life. Black consumed him.


	2. Chapter One - I have a Plan, Rhen Var

Arthcaso brought himself from the dizzying noises of the cityscape blaring behind him, with swoops zooming past the downtrodden pathways screaming not even a level below him as the portal to the cantina slid open and the dark lights and booming beats of the band enveloped him utterly into the room. The establishment, who's name never amounted to any real form of importance to the man, was filled to the brim by any lifeform that one could imagine. Bith, human, twi'lek, rodian, and a pattering of other various unknowns in the mind of Arthcaso. He was used to metropolitan fair, it reminded him of his bountiful homeworld, the capital of the Core. He had seemed less busy places hold a much more varied clientele than even this establishment. His eyes began to adjust to the dark hues of the room, the lights overhead, emplaced nearly at every five feet, bathed the room in a hue of deep blue. More of a mood lighting than something to properly help you understand your whereabouts. Waiters and waitresses of every stripe and creed walked the pathways expertly though, with a ingrained knowledge of their workplace, passing drinks of nearly as varied colors and consistencies to the clients that were sat in booths and tables all throughout the building. The room seemed to be divided into roughly two sections, one of them uplifted from the mainfloor, simply a step upwards. It was nearly twelve feet in length and stretched to the far back of the establishment, and lengthwise against the wall there were booths set with faux-lanterns hanging overhead. Those sat there had plates nearly as rule. The section of the cantina simply a step below was instead littered with randomly placed chairs generally paired with plain tables. The lighting was only given by the overhead lights, and speakers pumped the pre-recorded audiotracks throughout the section. Near what would roughly be the center of that section was a circular bar, much smaller than most, with a twinned pair of rodians shifting back and forth, taking orders and slinging drinks to one another, adding ingredients, slinging them back, before they found their ways into the hands of the customers that had ordered them. If you had tos go anywhere in Axxila, this would be the place.

He slipped his hands into the front facing pockets of his ebon-bomber's jacket, and started a stoll. The establishment was filled to the brim, busier than most times he had stopped in, but not the busiest he had ever seen. It was lively, with nearly all of the tables filled by different peoples and species, each of them having conversations or losing themselves to the drink. Several times Arthcaso had to squeeze by something much taller and wider than him, many times a great deal more fur or scales than himself, meanwhile others he would have to watch his step as he was careful not to misplace himself and accidentally crush and an Offworld Jawa or a Chadra-Fan, or a dozen other races that barely made it up to the knee of the human. However, despite the absolute sea of creation that he was left to during his trek, it would be nearly impossible to miss the people that he was searching for, but time and time again, he had been proven wrong on sure thoughts. His eyes combed through the crowd as he parted his way through where he could, gently tapping the shoulders of some to get through, to let them know he was simply passing.

Then, it happened, he stumbled, something had caught his foot, but he was far from sure what it was, and his shoulder caught against something much larger than him as he found his footing again after a couple of off kilter steps forward, boots scraping off of the plated ground before he turned on his heel on the final tumble. He spun with a finger held up from his hand, as if he was going to instantly burst into a pattering of apologies to whoever it may have been that he had recently disheveled. Instead of it being literally anything else less quick to anger, Arthcaso found himself looking up into beady-blank eyes. A reptilian face, a color similar to that of a Yellow Star in shuttering scales, and a red tongue flicking out against the Trandoshian's nose, once, twice, three times. The Trandoshian was clad, head to toe, in what accounted to be the standard fair for their race. A fine bandolier, crafted out of some form of hide, blurrg if Arthcaso had to guess, with several blaster pistols layered where the powercells would traditionally call home, with each of them being a different make and model, some illegally modified and some not. A slapped together, seemingly spot welded, chestpiece of plasteel sat directly underneath that. The reptilian had no sleeves to his outfit, instead letting the burley and built muscles attempt to crack out from under his draconian hide. The pants that the Trando wore were similar to most, they were a highly uncreative garmate, besides the fact that the Trando's seemed to be homespun, made from a patchwork of different cloths from different origins. Across it's lovely collection of blaster pistols, however, was a viscous fluid, a bright orange, with a few precious drops sitting in the glass cup that the Trando held in a clawed right hand. Another tongue flick.

"You ruined my trophies, human." The voice was far from pleasant, though Trandoshians rarely were pleasant. Arthcaso equivalated it to the cries of the Legendary Tirra'Taka, mimicking the tales that his father had told him. He often wondered if the stories were simply based off of early Trandoshian raids, and the early cultures inability to process it well enough. That wasn't the issue at hand, and he was brought back to reality by the sound of the glass in the Trando's hand steadily cracking, before a flourish of glass exploded from his grip, causing Arthcaso to bring his hands up to cover his face as he took a brief step back. The sound giving his heart a brief second start.

"I'm sure I can cover the cost," Arthcaso said as he gestured to the handblasters with an open hand, his left settling on his hip, edging to a holster. "What's it, at best, a thousand New Imperial?"

"The tools are unique, the hunts where I gained them are unable to be bought, my honor is the price, jetar madle."

Another step, and the Trandoshan brought the still glass shard laden hand forward and wrapped it around Arthcaso's throat. A brief murmur came from his lips as he brought his right hand instinctively up to grab at the lizard's grip, however, he fully knew even in his panic that it would do little good. The glass remnants popped and dug into his skin and flesh as the Trando shifted his grip around, scales scratching. Arthcaso could tell that they were drawing blood, as instantly after the grip felt much more slick as it rawed his neck. He was lifted then, high into the air, his legs kicking underneath him, unable to reach the Trandoshian. There was a crowd gathered now, displays like this were common, regarded as part of the atmosphere. The Trandoshan sat at nearly seven feet to Arthcaso's just barely not-six, and he stood at lifted nearly three feet off the ground.

"Now," Arthcaso could barely speak with the iron-grip around his flesh.

"I'm sure I can find you a nice, defenseless Wookie family to murder, refugees fit your idea of honor?" It was at this point the grip tightened, lessening his ability to speak even more, causing him to change his tone and approach.

"Misunderstanding. I Arthcaso. You?"

The Trandoshian only offered up a steady statement in Dosh, something that Arthcaso couldn't understand even if he had all of the blood required going to his brain. The lights and booming music of the environment were starting to go out. He should have pulled his blaster by now, but his grip was fading, fast, and his fingers were numb. Tapping against the leather and his belt, not registering what he felt to the rest of him. His sight started to vinette, closing in, his head had lulled back by now and he was closing in on a single light above. His vision giving way to nothing but the neon-blues of the lighting.

Then, suddenly, his fights for air became much easier, though the grip was still on his neck, he managed to swallow down small gulps of air, taking it into his lungs deep as he brought his head back, it clunking around barely in his control. At this point, he minded the carbine barrel that was pointed at an angle from the floor dead at the Trando's face. Those beady eyes locked just beyond the barrel, to it's owner. Barely able to fight his eyes to glance in that direction, a familiar helmet sat behind the scoped blaster. The simple horizontal line visor built into a frame of amethyst purple plate, with a breath mask built directly underneath the eyes. The body language was the most telling, the stillness, the finger resting on the trigger, not twitching, simply waiting for any excuse. It was hard to tell if the figure was even breathing.

"Kesmerr?" Arthcaso managed to gurgle out.

"Drop the prey, 'doshan." It was a simple command, blurted out in Basic, something unbefitting the Ubese saying it.

The gentle hum of the carbine accentuated the point. Arthcaso suddenly reached down, using what remained of his newfound strength to dig the holdout blaster from it's holster at his side before wrenching it up, awkwardly rolling it in his grip for a moment as his arm stuck straight out into the face of the Trando, fiddling with the pistol before suddenly a hum came from it and Arthcaso fixed his grip, the dual-barrels finally aligning at the Trando.

"Drop me." Arthcaso requested, the threat lessened by the state of his throat, much less by his dangling legs and shaking grip.

The Trandoshan's eyes danced between the human in his grip and the Ubese to his left, on one hand, he could snap the neck of the human on a whim, lunge at the Ubese, odds were in his favor that he could tank the carbine blast, but that was a gamble. There was always the issue that the human may have more friends than just the Ubese, and the reptilian's eyes began to mechanically take count of the crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle. There was no honor to being treated like prey by unseen forces, there was no honor to be within the sights of an unstated hunter. Besides, there was always the promise of the future, of more.

"This isn't over, _lowe _Arthcaso. I will have my honor." The claw released, and Arthcaso fell down to the floor, chest first, bouncing on the club's floor before starting to cough furiously.

His entire body heaving with the effort of drawing in new takes of air as the Trandoshan simply turned and began to walk away. Arthcaso looked up from the floor as he held his stomach, teary eyes blurring through the lights as he watched the crowd part for the reptile, the door sliding open, burning the aesthetic with light. He could swear that the eyes burned back at him for a moment before he was overtaken by another coughing fit, the door shutting, and slowly, the background noise of the cantina returning to normal. People going back to their drinks now that the moment of excitement had passed.

Finally letting his lungs come back to terms that they were free, Arthcaso went to his knees, picking his holdout blaster from the floor, brushing it off with his hand, before returning it to it's home. He brought a tough up and felt his neck, pinpoints of blood and scratches of crimson, roughed up, similar in texture to a rope burn, if the rope was barbed wire and the burn was glass. His eyes settled skyward, blinking to refocus themselves as the silhouette of Kesmerr solidified into reality. Six foot three, but to Arthcaso he appeared as a giant currently, clad head to toe in sections of plasteel and other blaster bolt resistant materials. The armor, through and through, kept a curved design, with rounded shoulders and a broad chest, seemingly intended to deflect blaster bolts into odd directions instead of absorbing them completely. All of the plate shaded the same color of purple, with a cloak settling just behind all of this, a simple black sheet acting as a hooded cape, nearly reaching down to the boots of the man. Arthcaso held out a hand to the Ubese, letting his right sit on his hip in a form of support. He sat like that for quite some time, the helmet betraying no emotion, but the inaction speaking as loud as a scream.

"Fine, fine…" Arthcaso's normally regally graced voice, seeming to have a proper home in a feudal throne, now was cracked and rough. Scratching against his throat.

He brought himself up slowly, standing like a wounded newborn Gallaze, several steps nearly misplaced, before three more quick ones found his footing as he straightened to a stand. Arthcaso fretted with his slicked back hair moments after he recentered himself.

"That was reckless." Kesmerr said, his voice scrambled electronically through the helmet. Sounding much more like a droid as he began to walk off, the flury of the twilight cape clearing a generous path through the reforming throughourfair of the bar. Steps parting through and ducking past just as Arthcaso had been when he came in.

"I had it under control. I was talking him down. Didn't want to waste the cells on him." Came the defense.

"You were seconds to death."

"Acting, acting, pure and simple."

"This isn't community holodramas anymore, Arthcaso. That attitude will get you killed."

"He wouldn't have wasted me in there! Barkeep would've kicked him out. Didn't need to draw the blaster, either. Spooked some folk with that."

The Ubese didn't reply, simply leading Arthcaso through the dizzying hoard of sentients, swimming their way through the sea of flesh. While every step that Arthcaso took was hesitant, curious, and laden with apologizes as he squeezes his way past, Kesmerr moved much more like a shade, uncaring for those he may be disturbing, and making sure footing on the path he wished to take.

"You sure this is where the client wanted to meet?"

Instead of speaking, Kesmerr simply nodded his head in the direction they were traveling. In the far distance, in the lonlinest corner of the room, there was a shriveled form, holding close to itself. It's hands were folded in front of it, and even from this distance, Arthcaso could tell that it held endlessly more age in every wrinkle on it's hairless head than anyone had the proper right to guess. The crowds thinned as they arrived closer, nearly nonexistent once they were within earshot of the booth the old human sat at. Despite not looking up at them to confirm that they were there, the man simply waved over in their general direction, causing both Arthcaso and Kesmerr to look at one another, with Arthcaso simply offering a shrug and starting his way over to the old man, Kesmerr in close trail.

"Sit, sit! I'll have some drinks on the way if you intend to be long, or if not, then not, whatever you'd prefer, sonnies." The old man called, his voice giving just as much credence to his age as one would expect. It was informal as his attire was, suggesting years of backliving, moisture farming or animal handling, however, that hardly fit the description that they were given when they were linked to this client. There was the promise of an organized operation, and a large payout.

"You are Mister Kesth, I take it?" Arthcaso asked as he brought himself into the booth across from the old man, looking up to Kesmerr and patting the seat next to him, which the Ubese took, the springs groaning under the weight of his armor.

"Some people call me that, yes." Mister Kesth responded, his words seeming distant, not exactly directed at the group in front of him.

It was at this point that Arthcaso could finally make out what made the man so peculiar, his eyes were glazed over, milky white through and through. More than seemingly blindness, it's something Arthcaso had seen before, it reminded him far too much of the death-stare of a corpse. He didn't have to note his observation to Kesmerr, he was certain that the Ubese had seen it before he had. The Ubese, as a rule, stayed silent during diplomatic chats like this.

"You're the Organizer we've been told about?"

"If you're talking about the little event I'm hosting on Rhen Var, then yes, but I don't do personal parties. You'll have to find someone else for that."

A glance went between Arthcaso and Kesmerr again.

"We weren't given many details, what all do we nee-"

"Mining colony set up shop on the planet some time ago, one part mining colony, let me correct myself, they had a healthy dose of illegal smuggling to the Hutts and Black Sun. Old Jedi artifacts. Snow storm came raging in, drove the lot of them out, at least those that were able to make it to their crafts in time. Rumor has it lots froze then and there. But, company done and went abandoned the project. Left everything. Kept all of this very hush-hush. Well, friends of friends are good to have, leaks are nice things when they help you, not so much for the other guy. You two, and a couple other groups I've rounded up, are going to head off to Rhen Var. Pick up what they left, heard they cracked into some cave or temple or tomb or something old and dusty of that nature days before the storm came in. Crate whatever you find up, ship it back to the quardnates I'll have sent to you, and you'll find a mighty fine check of 50,000 New Imperial Credits sitting in your accounts. Oh- and of course- to make sure that you don't make off with anything too important, a few of my personal associates will be there to keep tabs."

"Who would these be?"

"Couple droids, nothing to fret about, as long as you do what I ask, everything comes up even."

"What do you want with Jedi crafts? Dead culture, dead people, forgotten worlds." Kesmerr surprisingly spoke up.

"Ah, of course you would wonder that, my Ubese friend. What I want with these nicknacks is my own, if I wish to sell them I will, keep them I will. Unless your grudge against a centuries long dead group of Space Witches is going to keep you from your paycheck?" Those dead eyes settled on Kesmerr as Kesth spoke.

Kesmerr looked over to Arthcaso, and brought his hands up in front him, making several quick gestures, dancing his fingers between one another and drawing shapes in the air. Speaking without speaking, proper Ubeninal.

"I don't like this." He signed.

"50,000, my man." Arthcaso signed back in much less practiced Ubeninal.

"Could pay a debt, fetch a ship."

"Exactly. Now you're thinking. We go there, get this done, and then we forget it ever happened. Burn fuel till we see stars."

"Fine."

A smile crossed over Arthcaso's face as he turned to the blind man once more, returning to Basic.

"When do we leave?"


	3. Chapter Two - Hyalatul Hâsk'ari

\\\Low Description Gore Warning\\\

Cool hands clutched a cooler blaster handle, they were stacked up on both sides of the door, six deep, three on each side. The levels of the apartment block two above and two below were cleared as agents watched the exits of the building, a sniper trained on the window of the room in question. They called this place the Refuge and it stood as one of the shadier locations on Serenno, you were just as likely to see a noble clad in the finest sheets as you were to see a vibroblade making up the more important parts of a conversation. That was the first part of the puzzle that would lead Tavrie to following up on the lead, the fact that the crimes seemed to fit the area so well, and the trail of disappearances lead so neatly to this apartment complex, and this door in particular. 04-77, emblazoned across the durasteel door, simply graved there from some laser cutter when the building was first constructed. Blank, plain, but devoid of character that would normally be associated with a location such as this. The lights above the unit flickered playfully, seemingly at random, faulty wiring was obviously the blame but it made each of the team members double check their grips on their tools and take a secondary glance around their shoulder.

Tavrie took the moment to look down at her hands, the SE-05 blaster pistol weighty in her hands, dragging them down about a half inch more than she felt she should be carrying them. It was essentially a cut down version of the Old Imperial E-11 blaster rifle, slashing most of the barrel length, knocking the scope off, and shifting the powerpack to be placed at the bottom of the weapon instead of the side, along with a side mounted flashlight, it was reminiscent of the weapon without calling back on it too heavily. Despite this, the sound of it calling was very similar to that of the older E-11, albeit dropped in pitch and quicker in speed. It was standard loadout for NISB investigators, it gave them enough of a kick to hold their own without weighing them down too much. Past the blaster, the only thing that would identify her would be the badge that she carried in her jacket pocket, unlike the ISB, the NISB was much more careful about keeping it's members in proper citizen apparel, afterall, they were intended to be as trustworthy as any random spacer you would find wandering the streets, however much good that was supposed to do them.

The rest of the squad, however, seemed to be much more ready for direct combat. In their hands were cut down carbines, ARC-10ks. Simple grey jumpsuits with black plasteel chest pieces, paired with a shade designed helmet of similar style. Their faces were hidden behind respirators, with red tinted goggles covering their eyes. The front and back of their chests were marked, with a letter of the Aurebesh alphabet, in this case Aurek, and a corresponding number, 1-5 in this case. Callouts were much easier if you simply had to give a number, and commanding units much preferred the ability to simply yell for a letter of men to go do something than refer to their commander than any other form of communication. It was utilitarian, however, it added to the no-nonsense style that the troopers were meant to give off. They were far cries from the Stormtrooper Corps of the Old Empire, but they were the New Empire's closest equivalent. Boots on the ground were limited to practical soldiers with practical means, defense was prefered to offense, and the official doctrine was to preserve the borders, not expand them. Thus, the Corps was disbanded, at least within Imperial Serennan lands, the selection of Post-Fel warlord states all had their own takes on the military and the use of the stormtrooper ideal, with some planets even being full sail taken over as military juntas.

Across from her, Aurek-1 was counting down on his fingers, his head jolting around the group, catching them and gaining their attention as he held his arm up high. The third finger fell, and then the second, and at the exact queue of the final finger falling, the lights above flickered one last time before going off completely, enveloping the group in utter darkness. It was at this point that Tavrie flicked her blaster pistol from safety to the default double-tap, along with a flick of the switch on the flashlight at it's side, bringing it to life and giving her a direct beam of sight to the group members near her. There were brief moments of shuffling as the lights on the sides of each of the rest of the squad's rifles were smacked, flicked, and prodded until their lights turned on as well. It was this point that Aurek-1, once again held his hand up in the air, this time closed as a fist as he looked back and across at each of the NISB members, assuring that they were properly stacked up and prepped for what could be on the other side of the door. The Refuge was popular because of it's cheap housing, the apartment rooms were more akin to mini-homes, and the squad would have quite some distance to cover before the encountered the unsub if he was playing it smart, they had to move fast, move hard, and deny him the possibility of escape even more so than they already had. His eyes, a pale blue underneath the crimson visor, met with Tavrie, who gave a nod in response, reaching down by her leg, she unattached a long metal rod with a rubber handle. There were two prongs at the end, flattened at their tips, and a switch near the bottom of the device.

"ISBD!" She would yell, breaking the silence with all of the authority that the declaration would bring with it. She flicked the switch, turned the rod, and slammed it into the door, the electrical pulses that had generated at the tip reacting nearly instantly with the metal, sending waves of brief, yet potent, sparks across its surface, before a sudden groan of the circuitry of the door would call, sending it oscillating open.

Aurek-1 brought his ARC to his shoulder, instantly shifting away from his squad, as filing order would designate, with his job to be to take a step over the perminter, keeping his blaster forward as to secure any threats, and the two agents behind him would take left and right, He would never get any further than the frame of the doorway. He shifted, taking his step with his rifle brought high, the flashlight clearing his path ahead. What he registered of the room with his brief moment was rather simple. It was a wide space, roughly divided into two sections, with the closest seemingly a living area with the further being for meal preparation. The moment he registered this, and let his foot fall onto the carpeting of the room, it was too late. A noise rang out, and a flash of red light darted for a moment and bathed each of the agents in a momentary pastel red. Aurek-1's head suddenly and violently jerked to one side as he collapsed onto his left, his rifle falling free from his grip and clattering to the floor, followed by his entire body crumpling down to the floor.

Aurek-2, the man that was to enter in after him, simply knelt down at the entrance and brought his rifle up, scanning the room left to right directly in front of him. No yell of contacts, no confirmation of exactly what happened, there was to be no assumptions in the NISB. Aurek-2 looked over to his fallen comrade, the bolt marking on the side of his head still fresh, smoke still wafting into the air, and noticeably, his right foot caught not even an inch away from the frame, a loose assortment of twine caught on the toe.

Following the blast direction, he looked to the right of the frame, daring to bring his head around the corner, finding the source of A-1's death. A blaster pistol was bolted into the wall, a string leading from it and onto the floor, seemingly it had been tied across the entryway before Aurek-1 had passed the boundary and tripped it.

"We've got a rigged blaster trap, looks clear, watch your step." He would call out, his voice scrambled momentary before being automatically translated through comlinks each of the squad wore.

One by one members of Aurek squad would file into the building, blaster rifles raised as they formed a semi-circle around the door entrance, with Tavrie bringing up the lead, keeping her pistol level with her sightlines as she moved in, shifting her steps to the left as she drifted over to Aurek-1's body. The smoke having died down and the latent embers of the shot having cooled into the blackness of the room. She kneeled down, the shot was at least clean. It burned through the plasteel helmet and directly to his skull in a moment, giving him a quick death, she wondered if that was better than the alternative of him surviving the wound and suffering trauma. Reaching down, as if she was required to confirm it, she placed two fingers on a still warm neck. Waiting. Once. Twice. No beat.

"Officer down, blaster bolt." She would say, reaching up and tapping on her comlink.

Raising herself from the body, she began to take in the room around her, leading her sight with the blaster pistol. It was the first time they were given the chance to take in the actual state of the room, and the chaos that seemed to be all but too common throughout it. Chairs were thrown at random, a table that was in the dining area was flipped and pushed against the wall, looking more like the wall itself decided to grow a set of legs, and nearly every single cabinet in the kitchen proper was thrown open. The floor had been covered with canned foods and cooking implements of all kinds. There was a holoscreen that sat on the wall in the main room, it was wide, but old enough that it still flickered to pure black every couple of seconds, however it was producing a screen of simple white, that gave the room an eerie shine across most of the reflective surfaces. The main living room was roughly a rectangular shape, with the kitchen itself being longer than wide, leading to the far end of the building. Supposedly, if one were to move the table that was placed up, there would be a window that there was currently a DLT rifle trained on.

"Cap'in, you should see this." Came the call from Aurek-4. He was standing by a door near the entrance to the kitchen proper, with a long sheet of what looked like to be faux-wall popped out of place and laid next to it, with enough of it balled up on the ground to account for the entire surface area of the door itself, and at first, there was hardly anything properly off to note about why he would call her over. However, with a brief step into his direction and the shine of her flashlight to the man, it became clear. In stark red, some of it bright crimson, some of it dulled maroon, was a runic script. It was harsh, sketched by someone who wasn't using a proper writing tool to make the marks, each of them seemed to be rough, with a main center line and hanging dagger shaped curls and hooks hanging off of the characters. She struggled to make out each individual shape from the next, as they had a tendency to bleed together. There was a line of the runes that seemed to be fresher than the rest, with the blood-ink dripping down the durasteel of the door.

"Capture it, see if someone Up-On-High recognizes the script." Tavrie would say, nodding in the direction of the door. The agent gave a nod in return, stepping back, and giving a tap at the side of his visor, a shimmer of white light passing over the red for a moment.

There were two doors in the room, the Rune Door, and directly behind her there was another that led away from the kitchen, off into some unknown area. The build of these apartments were far from standardized, and there was a change that the unsub had constructed this specific living quarters special, it was common to buy out the nearby rooms and expand if they happened to be unpopulated in the Refuge, even if they were populated sometimes. She checked over her blaster one more time before looking at the back door.

"Stack up, two on me, three on the other door." She would command, taking point in front of the Runed Door. Aurek-4 and 5 falling in behind her, the priming of their ARCs echoing in the now still quiet of the room. Tavrie pulled her Door Knocker from her thigh again, activating it, holding it off in her left hand. She gave herself a moment, just a count, allowing herself to center well enough.

"Breach!" She called, slamming the Knocker into the door again, a shuttering of electricity before the door would slide open, the sound of a secondary discharge behind her as the second team vanished into the dark that their doorway opened up to. The Runed Door, instead, opened to a poorly lit stairwell, red emergency lights blinking in the twilight, offering just enough lighting to make out the fact that the metal frame that the floor broke into went out for a good foot and a half before suddenly turning to it's right. Cramped. Hardly any room for one to even move. She didn't hesitate, instead taking her steps into the flashing red lights.

There was barely enough room for her to keep proper form, having to hunker her shoulders closer onto her frame as she turned right, her blaster pistol never leaving level, shifting upwards to look at the path up. The stairwell itself was ancient by design, the steel that the steps were made out of had holes punched into it periodically, as if it had originally been constructed for outside use to allow the rain a place to flow through. It was rusted around the holes heavily, but the rest of the construct itself wasn't saved, with cracks and flakes of tarnish flicking off into the air with the breeze offered by the newly opened door. If she had to guess, there were nearly forty steps at a 70 degree angle before they suddenly terminated, it seemed as if it would shift and double back to another flight of stairs. She began to step upwards, each footfall causing the entire system to moan and creek underneath her weight. The walls moaned and rocked as she went, and the vibrations of her steps, especially once the pair of agents behind her joined, caused the sharply angled handguards to jangle and clang against their poorly bolted restraints. Seeming to threaten to crack as soon as one would put some weight on them. The three were forced to go single file as they moved, with Tavrie making a point to remain as far right as she could, really only able to assure her right foot landed center on the stairs with every step. She raised her right hand, passing her pistol to her left for a moment, and held up a single finger and shifted her entire arm, locking her shoulder, to the right twice. Radio silence from here out.

The three made their way, step by step, up the stairs, sending the entire poorly made rig into a seizure and protest about their very existence. Until Tavrie would make it to the top, holding up a fist for the group to regroup on her, giving it a moment until the other two managed to close the distance on her once again, stacking up behind her as she slowly took the final step up for this direction. The stairs terminated at a wall, with the metal flooring curving around and out another foot, seemingly turning on the well to continue upwards. Taking her blaster pistol into both hands, she leveled it and began to turn the corner. Another row of correlated steel steps, raising up another forty steps, before seemingly repeating what the earlier had done. Her eyes had settled to the red-light by this point, but she blinked at the top of the stairs. A figure, just enough standing against the black end of her sight to make out a humanoid shape. She took a few steps forward, enough for the two agents behind her to file in, before raising her blaster.

"NISB, hands up!" She commanded.

The crack of a slugthrower filling the chamber was the shadow's defiance, Tavrie barely pressing herself to the wall the moment she saw movement. Her blaster raised and the double report sent two bolts streaming through the dark and slamming into the wall behind the Shadow as he vanished around the corner. She nearly rushed off instantly, only sparing a glance behind her to be shown where the slug had traveled. One of the agents collapsed against the wall, his blaster on the floor as he held his right shoulder, the wall behind him splattered with red, leg kicking at the knee occasionally.

"Keep going! I'm not going to bleed out!" He grunted through gritted teeth, slamming his fist against the metal floor.

"With me, agent." Tavrie said, Aurbek-4 following behind her, taking up the right side of the walkway as she took the left, double timing it, taking two stairs at a time.

"Agent down, contact made with unsub, shots fired. Heading up a stairwell between 04-77 and 04-78." Aurbek-4 would call into his headset.

Storming up the stairs, turning the corner, weapons high, and repeating that three more times, the pair nearly were starting to think that they had lost the target, that was the thoughtline until their steps began to slow, and the incline of the stairs suddenly became much less, as if they were improperly measured or planned out from the start. At the end of the final uplet, there was no turn, and instead on the right side was a doorway, having been swung open and left to wind back and forth along it's hinges, and older model, not automated. Old lock and key, however this one was left free. Looking back at the agent, Tavrie made a fist twice, waving to the side of the doorway, the pair stacking up once again at the entrance. Tavrie eyed the floor carefully, making note of there being no trip-line this time, as if the unsub had not felt the need to defend this far into his sanctum. There was something wrong about the air, something harsh, metallic, but unable to exactly be made out. There was a warm quality to it, even past the temperature between these rooms. She swung her blaster around as she took a knee at the entrance of the room, her flashlight illuminating only the area where she aimed. The room, past the red light streaming in from the stairwell, pitch black. Her flashlight gave sight to the backend of the room, settling perfectly on a door at the extreme end, the smell was growing stronger, and there was a sound, itching at just the background of her audible range, a murmur, that suddenly was silenced, harshly cut off. She brought her flashlight to each corner of the room, giving it a wide berth. There were large, wooden, bookshelves that lined both sides of the walls on her immediate left and right. Oddly enough, each and every last of the books seemed to be made of the same material, despite different shades, and sometimes different textures. Pales and darker shades, sometimes they had hexagonal patterns, other times, rough and course, however, even from sight, they seemed to be flexible materials binding the books together, with spine clipping of white, visible through the covering. Without the need to speak, the agent and Tavrie set up near the door at the far end of the room.

She gave another count, to herself, to the agent, counting down on her fingers as she moved, standing in front of the door, leveling her blaster again. One, she brought her booted foot up, slamming it into the sheet-craft door, sending it crashing open, nearly popping one of the hinges free.

Then it hit her, the smell. It was harsh, consuming, reminding her of the harbor after a fresh slaughter of catch. Warm, familiar, gallons upon gallons had to be the source with how overpowering it was. Sending her stomach rolling, her body heat rising, and her eyes burning. Blood. Stale, fresh, and a lot of it. She fought the need to retch, instead bringing the bend of her left arm to cover her mouth, coughing harshly, her knees buckling for a moment. The agent not reacting at all, saved by his mask, however, he kept his ARC trained as Tavrie pressed forward, one handing her pistol. Her flashlight cut through the darkness once again, only to be greeted with a much more morbid scene. Rows and rows of butchershooks stapled into the ceiling, sentients in various states of "processing" were placed on most of them, however a few of them were free. Five by however long the room stretched, with most of them seemingly filled. Some bone, some fleshed, some still fresh, recently dead, still with skin. She lost her stomach, not even managing to enter the room before it overcame her, Aurbek-4 going deathly still as he registered the same thing that she had.

"Command… we found the missing. Dead." He spoke into his comlink, his voice cracking and shuddering as he swept his rifle's light across the cadaver garden in front of him. They managed to bring themselves together, starting to move their way down the center alleyway of the dead. The rows ending after around seven rows, with the room then giving way to pitch black once again. A blood trail leading off from one of the bodies and into the center of the room, vanishing past the dark. Lights trained on it, the pair followed, moving deeper into the facility, the smell waning as they moved past.

They found the unsub, at the end of the empty concrete room, sitting in a chair, red covering his sleeves and collar, with crimson slapped onto the wall behind him, reading in Aurebesh:

Hyalatul Hâsk'ari


End file.
